


Orange You Glad

by shiphitsthefan



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade Summer Challenge Fic Dump [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Agender Castiel, Alternate Season/Series 08, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, Holding Hands, Human Castiel, Intercrural Sex, Kilts, M/M, Marking, Non-Binary Castiel, Porn with Feelings, Public Sex, Scars, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Pie Sharing, Switch Castiel, Switch Dean, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:10:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4250589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hates farmers markets and everything that they stand for.  However, following a conversation with a new friend, an aptly-timed epiphany, and some impromptu pie-sharing, Dean's definitely rethinking that opinion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orange You Glad

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Destiel Smut Brigade](http://destielsmutbrigade.tumblr.com/) Summer Heat Challenge; the prompt was "farmers market".
> 
> We were encouraged to challenge ourselves so, in that spirit, I gave myself the following guidelines:
> 
>   * Write an original character.
>   * Keep the story under 6500 words.
>   * Make the deadline.
> 

> 
> Done, done, and done! Super proud of myself. Thanks to my beta, the magnificent [betty days](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sadrobots/pseuds/betty%20days/works) for glaring at me and making me stick to my word count goal. If not for her, this would have been about 3000 words over my self-assigned limit, and not nearly as coherent. Best friend is best.
> 
> Thanks, too, to all the other lovely ECKC folks at BettyCon—[AgentFreeWill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentFreeWill/pseuds/AgentFreeWill), [habitatfordeanwinchester](http://archiveofourown.org/users/habitatfordeanwinchester/pseuds/habitatfordeanwinchester/works), [kanoitrace](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kanoitrace/pseuds/kanoitrace/works), [LunaWolf333](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaWolf333/pseuds/LunaWolf333/works), and [viscouslover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/viscouslover/pseuds/viscouslover/works). The cheerleading, support, and tolerance for my constant authorial fretting over the past few days was very much appreciated.
> 
>  _Further_ thanks to [aerialiste](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialiste/pseuds/aerialiste/works) for pointing out some leftover mispronouning. Pronouns are hard to use correctly, yo, even when they're mine.
> 
> (Warning—There is mention of Cas kissing Meg and of the time spent with Daphne. It's a very short, single instance of reference, but in case you aren't cool with that, now you know.)

After literal months of being forced to drive to and stop at farmers markets across the country, Dean has finally learned to not ask the crunchy hippies questions.

Take his cup of fair trade coffee, for instance.  At the beginning of Sam's insistent fresh food phase, Dean would have asked what the hell made this trade fair.  That was a hard-hustled five bucks, thank you so very much, and he could buy this for a buck-fifty at a greasy spoon somewhere off the highway.

But now?  Now Dean knows that there's a difference between selective picking and strip-picking; that beans should be plucked by hand; that said bean-pluckers typically earn wages akin to working in a sweatshop; that some farms use pesticides and chemicals that are dangerous to the water supply.  And maybe it makes Dean an asshole, but he honestly couldn't give two fucks.  He just wants his coffee, because being caffeinated is important in case some of those growers and pickers and planet-livers get attacked by hypothetical chupacabras.

So, when the Jerry Garcia-type behind the counter hands him his overpriced, fair trade, shade-grown, bird-friendly caffeine of choice in a blue mug that had been dug out of a Goodwill garbage can for all he knows, Dean just thanks the guy and moves on.

Honestly, after this whole Leviathan business, Dean thinks we could probably _use_ a few more chemicals in the water, but the last time he brought that up in a market, Sam made him go wait in the car.  Since they're in the middle of southern Florida and also in the middle of summer, that sounds unbearable, especially considering that he refuses to idle the car with the a/c going.  It's not that he's worried about the gas; he's worried about yet another seventy-year-old woman with sagging tits lecturing him about the ozone layer in the goddamn parking lot where he's supposed to be safe.

Granted, if Dean wasn’t suffering through three squares of rabbit food per day, then he might be in a decent enough mood to join the endless drum circle.

"I lived on grass and bark for a year in Purgatory," Dean had finally yelled at Sam.  "Like, nothing but fiber.  Do you have any idea how inconvenient it is to be chased by monsters non-stop when you constantly have to take a shit?"

"I'm sure your digestive system appreciates it," Sam had snarked back over yet another salad.  "Not to mention your cholesterol."

"Meanwhile," Dean had replied, "my tastebuds are screaming for mercy.  No diners means no pie, Sam."

“It’s the Paleo diet,” Sam had said with a sigh.  “Early man didn’t make pie.”

“Which is _why we evolved.”_

Sam had eventually relented, and Dean had bought a portable grill, and now he gets to make free-range, grain-fed, antibiotic-less burgers maybe once a week.  He will admit that they do taste better, even if the rest of the crew eats theirs wrapped in lettuce and Dean’s forced to eat it on whole-wheat, twelve-grain bread.

Everything in the new Winchester food pyramid is hyphenated.  If it wasn’t for Cas, Dean would have lost his goddamn mind.  Life would be completely tolerable—peachy, even—if Cas would tell him how they got out of Purgatory.  “It isn’t important, Dean,” Cas says every single fucking time.  But it _is_ important, because Dean’s convinced that Heaven’s just brought them back for some brand-new bogus, world-ending purpose and he’s going to have to watch them walk into another proverbial reservoir to solve the problem.

But Castiel’s not an angel, not anymore.  Now they’re _Cas,_ human, alive, breathing and eating and sleeping and grumpy as Kevin without their cup of hyphenated coffee in the morning.  And that’s different too, Cas as they instead of he.  They insist that they remain genderless; that their vessel, though still Purgatory-bearded and very male, “Does not accurately encompass my entire self.”  Dean may not quite understand, but he’ll be damned if those wishes go unrespected.  Cas is Cas, and that’s enough for Dean.

When bothered to imagine Castiel as a human (which may be far more often than he would ever admit), Dean had typically seen them as they’d been in that alternate future.  Disillusioned.  Burned out.  Ready to die if the Lord would just take them.

Sometimes, Dean pictured human Cas as that Misha guy from another alternate universe instead.  A prissy, sweater-wearing, unbearable man.  He refused to get Cas a phone for a good week, convinced they’d take to social media and constantly chirp or whatever the hell the kids call it.  Stuff like, “Killed a wendigo this morning OMD.”  Probably start taking pictures of their goddamn breakfast.

Actual, real, going-to-be-a-human-forever Cas is nothing Dean could have ever come up with.  They’re a colorful, vibrant, exuberant enigma of a person.  Cas wears Charlie’s old shirts—not her geeky tees, but fucking _women’s tank tops,_ stretched tight across their chest and torso in a manner that Dean secretly finds very distracting.  They wear bracelets up and down their arms beneath their well-worn thrifted denim jacket.  Cas has on orange plaid knee-highs today, and they relaced their boots this morning with orange laces, as well.  They match their nail polish.

_Nail polish._

“I’ve never been in anything but a uniform, Dean,” Cas had told him.  “I find fashion very freeing.”

In that same spirit of freedom, they choose to wear a utilikilt, which, okay, Dean actually thinks that’s kind of badass, especially watching Cas fight in it.  Cas twists and turns and is fluid and mighty and unstoppable, like seeing real-life _Braveheart;_ they’re a whirling warrior kicking ass, a pleated pugilist, a knife-fighter with ballerina precision.  It’s worth being frequently aroused and addled in the middle of battle just to get a glimpse of the glory that is Cas in a man skirt.

They’re weird and wonderful, the only breath of fresh air in Dean’s lungs, and he never wants to exhale.

The shoppers walking past Dean at the Yellow Green Farmers Market likely assume he’s people-watching.  Really, Dean’s just Cas-watching, making sure they don’t flap off while he runs mental laps through his lengthening list of personal problems.

Cas is currently making conversation with two old men running a honey booth across the aisle from Dean.  They look happy, and that makes Dean happy, even though Dean is miserable because he’s stuck tailing Cas in the middle of another Foodie Bonnaroo instead of off hunting.

“How long did you serve together?” says a voice near his elbow, and Dean chokes on his coffee in surprise.

“What?”  Dean looks over to his right and then down at an alarmingly short woman.  Her large, round, deep-brown eyes are framed by obnoxiously pink square-rimmed glasses; she wears her long black hair in two neat braids, and they fall down over a purple tie-dyed shirt and dark green apron.  He glances further down past her khaki shorts to her feet, clad in Cheshire-cat striped toe socks and Birkenstock sandals.

 _Great,_ he thinks.   _Another goddamn inquisitive helpful hippy._

“How long did you serve together?” she repeats.

“Why would you assume that?”

She smiles.  “It’s the way you carry yourself.  Like a soldier.  All threatening machismo, like you’re ready to strike at a moment’s notice, and you’re watching everyone.  Well,” she amends, a sly look in her eyes, “you’re mostly watching your friend over there, and scanning the crowd for possible threats to his safety.”

Dean tries to relax to prove her wrong.  “I could just be an over-protective, possessive bastard.”  He clears his throat and pointedly adds, “Of _them.”_

“Uh-uh,” she says, shaking her head.  “You’ve got Papa’s same stare down to an art.  It’s the way he watches Dad when they’re not standing right next to each other—like anyone could be the enemy and Dad could disappear at any moment.  Though you probably are all the things you said, too, also like Papa.”

Dean can’t figure out how to respond to a complete stranger reading him like a book.

“You lost him once, didn’t you?” she asks.  “Because that’s what makes Papa glare at anyone within a twenty-foot-radius.  He lost Dad on patrol once.  Thought he was dead.”

Dean doesn’t know why he nods, but he does.  He even adds, “Twice.”

“He has no idea, does he?”

“It’s _they,”_ Dean snaps, fully prepared to launch into the explanation of pronouns and misgendering that he has fucking memorized like an exorcism for these occasions.  She simply nods an apology, so Dean nods in acceptance and asks, “What idea?”

“How much you love h—sorry, _them._  About how scared you are to lose them again,” she says, putting a hand on his arm.

Dean closes his eyes and admits, “I don’t know.”  He feels a little light-headed after hearing the word _love._  The world feels fuzzy; there’s a buzz in his ears; his light cotton overshirt feels stifling, even with the sleeves rolled up and unbuttoned.  Dean’s surprised to find that his arm is trembling.

“Come on, buddy,” she says, pulling him back behind the counter of her own booth, “you need to sit down.”  She pushes him into a comically-too-small lawn chair.  Dean’s aware of the coffee mug being pried out of his hand, but he’s still staring at Cas.  He can’t stop.  They might vanish if he blinks.

“I’m sorry,” she says.  “I have a bad habit of prying.  I just read people, and think I can help, and you were screaming ‘help me, save me, I need to talk.’”

“It’s okay,” says Dean.  His jaw’s tensed up, and his skin’s too tight, and he keeps flexing his fingers.  Dean doesn’t want to talk.  He wants to punch something, wants to fight, wants anything to fill up the ache in his chest.

“Are you?”

Dean forces a smile.  “I haven’t been okay since I got back.”

“Name’s Miranda,” she says.  “How long have you been home…?”

“Dean,” he says.  “About ten months.  They made their way back three months ago.  And we’ve been fighting off and on together since 2008, since you asked earlier.  September.”  He chuckles mirthlessly.  “Got an anniversary comin’ up, I guess.”

“You want some tea, Dean?” Miranda asks.  “I’ve got an organic chamomile-lemongrass blend.  Good for detox and relaxation.”

 _No, I do not want anymore fucking holistic bullcrap._  “Yeah.”   _Dammit._

She nods, walks the two steps over to pull an electric kettle off of a shelf full of mismatched tea cups.  “You two just move to the area?”

“Nah, we travel around with my brother and a couple nerdy adoptees.”

“Vagabonds, then,” Miranda says.  “A new generation of Beats.”

“Something like that,” Dean mumbles.  He pulls his eyes away from Cas to check out her wares.  He’s absolutely surrounded by bars of soap and little pots of gloss and a bunch of other cosmetic shit he doesn’t recognize.  “You make all this stuff?”

“I do,” says Miranda as she drops a tea bag in a cup and pours the hot water over top.  After it brews, she kicks over a camp stool, sits down, and hands Dean his tea.

“Is this the part where we’re supposed to chit chat?”

“We don’t have to talk, you know,” she begins as she pulls the tea bag from Dean’s cup, “but I’m a decent listener, if you’d like an ear.”

He looks over at Cas, then down into his tea.  Miranda has such a chill, laid-back attitude; she rolls with the words that come out of Dean’s mouth, accepting without challenging.  It makes it easy to open up.

Dean takes another sip of tea to settle himself.

“He—”  Dean shakes his head.  “They— _Cas_ pulled me out of hell.  I thought they were the enemy.  Stabbed them.  That’s how we met.”

Miranda laughs, soft and sweet.  “Quite the meet-cute there.”

Dean hums in agreement.  “We worked together pretty closely for a couple years, before the mission was over.  They got reassigned, and I played civilian for a year.  But it wasn’t for me.”

“So you joined back up?”

“Yeah, but Cas was different.  Started hiding shit, lying to me, trusting the wrong people.  And then I lost them.  Thought they died for a while, and then found them when I least expected.”  Dean takes a long drink, lets the hot and soothing liquid wind its way down his throat.  “They did a stint in the hospital, and then we both wound up back in a war zone, and I lost them again.  And now we’re both back and—”

“And what?” Miranda prompts, putting a hand on his knee.

Dean sighs.  “I’ve walked through hell.  I mean _literal hell._  I’ve fought and slain and thrown myself into danger to save people who couldn’t give two shits about me.  I’m the killer monsters have nightmares about, and you know what scares me, Miranda?  What _terrifies_ me?”

“Losing Cas again?”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.  “I feel like any minute I’m gonna wake up in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and they’re gonna be gone.”

“And that’s why you haven’t told them how you feel.”

Dean nods and runs his free hand through his hair.  “I can’t be what drives them away.  I can’t be the reason they leave, because they don’t feel the same.  And I don’t even know who they are anymore,” he continues.  “Cas made it back and they’ve changed, but I haven’t, not in any way that’s positive.  I’m a _mess,_ Miranda.  I need Cas, no matter who they are, but me?  I’m a fuckin'  _disaster_ of a human being.  They’re getting their shit together, figuring out who they are, a brand new person, and I’m still nervous and agitated and waitin’ for heaven to rain shoes on my head.”

“Cas is adapting,” says Miranda, “and you haven’t figured out how.”

“Exactly.  And I’m afraid that, once I do—fuck, if I _ever_ do—they’ll have moved on.  They’ll figure out they don’t need me anymore, and then they’ll just...”  Dean slumps, defeated.  “Fly off on their own.”

“Well,” Miranda begins, “obviously I don’t know the whole situation, but does Cas not have family to go back to?”

“I mean, yeah, kind of.  They’re all a bunch of dicks, though.”

Miranda snorts.  “They seem pretty independent from what you say.  They could probably fit in fairly well elsewhere.”

“They’re not quite as goddamn clueless as they used to be, that’s for damn sure.”

“So they _choose_ to stay with you,” she observes.

“They said I was their home,” Dean says, looking back down at his empty cup and the remnants of honey that cling to the bottom.

“So Cas loves you.”

Dean snaps his head up.  “What?”

“Seems to me that they could go back to their family, their friends, their previous life,” says Miranda.  “They could make it on their own, carve a new niche in the world.  But they didn’t.  They choose _you.”_

“They did,” he says, the truth of her observation dawning on him.  “In the end, for better or worse, they always do.”

The words pass his lips, and the heartache flows out with them, carried on the warm breeze of his breath.

“What do you want?” she asks as they finish their tea.

He closes his eyes and says, “I want to choose them, too.”

Miranda gets up and rustles through a basket next to cash register.  She tosses a pot of lip gloss at Dean, who catches it easily.  “You give that to your Cas.”

He turns the pot around in his hand so he can read the label.  “‘Orange You Glad’?” he asks incredulously. “Fuckin’ corny name.”

“Yeah,” she says, “but fun to kiss off.”

Dean barely has enough time to get the lip balm into his jeans pocket before she pulls him out of his chair.  Miranda shoos him away with a bright smile, and Dean pushes his way through the crowd and over to the honey booth.

Cas looks up at him with a smile when he reaches their side.  “Come on,” Cas says, grasping  Dean’s hand, “I saw a stand selling miniature pies.”

“That’s the second-best thing I’ve heard all day,” says Dean, wide-eyed and mouth-watering.  He lets Cas pull him through the throng of people, the pot of Orange You Glad burning a hole through his pocket and—

—And Cas is holding his hand.  In public.  It’s warm and strong and Dean can’t ever recall walking hand-in-hand with anyone in his whole life, but he doesn’t want to stop.  He doesn’t want to let go.

They stop, but Cas doesn’t drop his hand.  Dean hears them talking to the woman at the counter, but he can’t make out the words over the sound of his own epiphany.

“You’re holding my hand,” Dean says loudly as they move on.

Cas cranes their head, glances over their shoulder at Dean.  “It’s crowded, and I don’t want to lose you.”

Dean nods.  He doesn’t want to be lost, either.  This is the corner of the world Dean’s allowed, right here, in the palm of his hand, pulling him along and out of the sweltering mass of humanity and toward the light.  All he has to do is hang on and refuse to let go.

By the time they stop again, they’ve made it out of the market and back into the scorching heat of midday.  Dean expects to be led back to the Impala, but Cas tilts their head, gesturing that they want to go around behind the building.  They don’t wait for a response, simply start pulling him along again, around the brick wall of the building and out of sight.  It’s cooler back here, and certainly cooler than it would be in the car, the sun positioned in the sky to where the shadow of the building darkens the pavement.

“What kind of pie did you get?” asks Dean once they stop, sufficiently hidden unless someone else has the same idea as Cas.

“Pecan,” they say, leaning against the wall and pulling the wrapped miniature pie out their pocket.  Cas grabs hold of a loose corner of the wax paper with their teeth, and tears off a wide swath from around the pie.

It’s the most ridiculous, endearing thing Dean’s ever seen in his entire life.  Cas, former wavelength and short-term god, wrestling with a piece of wax paper with their mouth because they refuse to drop Dean’s hand.  Cas finally gives up, brings their hands up together and uses their thumb and the side of Dean’s finger to finish pulling the wax paper off.  With a small sound of triumph, Cas holds the pie up to Dean.

He doesn’t even think about it, just leans forward to take a bite.  Dean moans as the gooey filling melts in his mouth.  He can’t even remember the last time he had pecan, and it’s his favorite.  The crust is buttery and flaky and the pecans are crunchy.

Dean leans back, and realizes Cas is watching his mouth.  He finishes chewing, watching theirs.

“You have a crumb on your lip,” Cas says.

“You’re still holding my hand,” Dean replies.

“Is that a problem?”

Cas loosens their grip, tries to pull their hand away, but Dean grips it tight.  He raises it to his mouth, presses his lips against a knuckle.  Dean watches Cas’ eyes widen, their mouth drop open around a little gasp.  He kisses the next one, and the next, all the way across their hand.

Cas blinks, and for a moment, they’re a confused angel again.  They offer the pie back to Dean, who raises his head and takes another bite.  Still just as good as the first one, better even, because Cas is still watching him, and he’s still watching Cas.

“How does it taste?” Cas asks carefully after Dean chews and swallows.

No more hunting; no more waiting; no more excuses.

He reaches over and breaks a piece off of the pie.  It’s sticky and crumbly and clings to his fingers.  Dean brings it to Cas’ mouth and says, “You tell me.”

Cas hesitates, a brief half-second that allows enough room for Dean to second guess himself, but then Cas tentatively takes a bite from the proffered piece.  Their lips brush against Dean’s fingers, a bare hint of a touch, but he inhales sharply all the same.  The contact is exciting, yes, but Dean’s honestly a bit shocked that he’d never paid attention to how chapped Cas’ lips were.  Is Cas dehydrated?  Do they breathe with their mouth open?  Have they never heard of—

—Lip balm.  Miranda is a goddamn genius.

Dean’s not about to stick a pie-covered hand into his pocket, so he decides to take advantage of a golden opportunity.  He pops two fingers into his mouth, making an exaggerated, appreciative noise.  Dean slides them back out slowly, makes a show of it, swirling his tongue around and between his fingers, licking off any leftover stickiness.  He looks at Cas through his lashes as he moves to his thumb and repeats the process.

Cas’ mouth hangs open, eyes huge.

“You want to try another bite?” Dean asks with a smirk after he finishes.  “Maybe you’ll like it better the second time.”

“No,” Cas replies, their voice strained.  “No, I think you will enjoy it considerably more than I would.”  They let go of Dean’s hand at last, crowd him up against the wall.  Cas breaks off another piece and holds it up to Dean’s mouth expectantly.

Dean is more than happy to give a repeat performance.  He opens his mouth in waiting, and Cas pops the bite of pie in his mouth, but retracts his fingers quickly.  Dean chews, confused.  He swallows in time for Cas to offer another piece, and the process repeats—Cas staring at Dean, pulling their fingers just out of reach of Dean’s mouth, waiting for him to finish his bite.  Dean can’t figure it out, and it’s so distracting that he keeps forgetting that he’s supposed to be sexing this up.

Cas has a dimple from where their mouth is permanently twitched up on one side and one eyebrow raised impossibly high, smirk evolving to a full on predatory grin as they rest the last bite against Dean’s bottom lip, and fucking hell, that is _it._  Dean grabs Cas’ wrist, pulls the bite into his mouth with his tongue, teasing Cas’ fingers with it.  While Cas is distracted and thrown off-balance from the contact, Dean grabs Cas’ shoulder with his free hand and reverses their positions with a quick turn, slamming Cas up against the wall.

They exhale sharply as their back hits the bricks, but it dissolves quickly into a moan as Dean rocks against them, finally sucking their fingers into his mouth.  Dean swirls his tongue around them, licks in between, pulls them out and then sucks them in one at a time.  He can’t stop watching Cas—their chest rising and falling fast with each short breath, their eyes dilating.  Cas tries to tilt their hips to meet Dean’s, but Dean can’t have that; he’s in control of this situation, so he grinds harder against them, pins them with his pelvis, relishes in the soft _thunk_ of the back of their head hitting against the wall as their eyes close and they bite their lip against a groan.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, Cas’ wrist still grasped tightly in his hand.  He brings it up to his lips, kisses up Cas’ palm, flips their hand and does the same across their knuckles.  “You like that?”

They nod again, Cas’ eyes flickering back and forth across Dean’s face as if they've never seen him and are trying to place his face, desperate to remember.  Dean tries not to recall the last time he saw that look on their face, standing on a porch in Colorado.  He feels his lip tremble slightly as he pulls away from Cas’ knuckles.

Cas’ face softens like they understand.  Dean feels their hand on the back of his neck, feels them pull him closer, foreheads touching.

Dean knows the moment’s broken, but this is a more-than-acceptable interjection.  He lets go of Cas’ wrist, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out the pot of Orange You Glad.  Dean takes his hand from Cas’ shoulder, but never takes his eyes away, even as he unscrews the lid and slips it  back into his jeans.  There’s something different about the shared stare between them—it’s always been charged, always been tense, but this feels like the precipice of _more._

This is the cliff, and they’re about to drive off of it hand in hand.

Dean does glance down now as he touches the surface of the lip balm with the pad of his finger.  It’s smooth and solid, like the outside of a candle, but gives easily.  He rubs his finger in it, collecting a sizeable amount.  Dean holds Cas to the wall, forearm to chest, looks back up at them and, with a tiny smile and intense concentration, bring his fingers to their lips and begins to apply the balm.

He traces slowly, following the slight curve of their bottom lip from one corner to the other.  Dean can sense Cas’ eyes on him, and wonders what they’re thinking, because it feels like they’re holding their breath.  But Cas hasn’t dropped their hand from his neck, and Dean feels an exhale against his fingers at last.  Cas runs their fingertips through the short hair on the back of his head, and Dean relaxes, too.

Dean puts more lip balm on his finger and moves on to Cas’ top lip.  He does his best to stay within the lines, rubbing the balm along the distinct bow of their lip, reveling in the transition of chapped skin to silken, his hand shaking a little at the realization that he’s about to feel Cas’ lips beneath his.

Cas locks their fingers in Dean’s hair, inhales deeply, their mouths nearly meeting, and then crushes their lips together.

Dean feels like he’s being devoured, and the pot slips from his fingers and clatters to the ground, rolling off to the side.  There’s absolutely no pretense, no gentle exploring or cradling Dean’s head.  Cas is here to conquer, and there’s only one prisoner they intend to take.

Dean slides his foot in between Cas’ legs and around their ankle, and flips them again.  He traps Cas with his forearms, resting them on the wall next to their arms.

“No,” Dean says.

Cas wrinkles his brow and squints, looks hurt for a moment.  “No?”

“Ain’t gonna let you kiss me like you kissed Meg,” answers Dean.  “I’ve been waiting for this for _years,_ had to watch you with her instead, see you living with Daphne.  If we’re going to do this, then we’re doing it my way.”  He takes his turn to speak into Cas’ mouth.  “That means you’re _mine.”_

Dean goes with the gentle approach, moves his mouth against Cas’, enjoys the slickness of the lip balm as it glides between their lips as they kiss.  Now that he’s not being eaten alive, Dean can enjoy the hint of orange that sneaks into his mouth, that he tastes on his tongue as he slips it in to stroke against Cas’.

Cas moans into his mouth, grabs Dean’s hips, and pulls him closer.  Dean breaks the kiss to look at Cas and smile, begins to make a smart remark, but the words are knocked out of him as his back hits the wall again, Cas slamming his hips into the brick.

“I would never kiss you like I kissed her,” Cas says, and the words come out in a growl that goes straight to Dean’s dick.  “You think you’re the only one that waited?  The only one who longed?  I may be _yours,_ but never think for a minute that you aren’t also _mine,_ and I intend to stake my claim now, finally and for good.”

Endorphins flood Dean’s brain, and adrenaline runs through his nerves, and he was wrong, so wrong.  They might be confessing instead of excusing, and they’re definitely no longer waiting, but this?  This is a hunt, plain and simple.  It’s a primal struggle for dominance, and Dean’s willing to play dirty in order to get what he wants.

He flips them again, more like a lead turns his partner in a dance rather than a need to assert—there’ll be time for that later.  Dean tips Cas’ head back and to the side, because he needs to see the scars.  They’re still a livid red, jagged and cruel against their tan skin.

“What happened?” he asks, because no matter how much he wants this, he can’t do it around the elephant between them.

“I couldn’t leave with my Grace,” Cas says with a sigh.  “By the time I decided I didn’t want to stay behind, there was no chance to rid myself of it.  I sent you through the portal, then teleported away as fast as I could, back to the river, as I remembered where it was.  I followed the river, searching for the sharpest stone, sharpened it further and then I…”  Cas takes a shaky breath, lays their head on Dean’s shoulder before continuing.  “I cut out my Grace.  Thought I was going to die; I bandaged it the best I could, but it didn’t heal correctly.  Hence the scars.”

Dean’s hand moves on its own to Cas’ throat and traces the scar tissue there, reverent and gentle.  “And then you fought your way back to the portal,” he says.  “That’s why it took you so long to get back.”

Cas nods, burying their face in Dean’s neck.  “They’re ugly,” they say with a pained voice.

“They’re beautiful,” says Dean, and they are, because these are what brought Cas back to Dean.

What brought them together.

What brought Cas home.

Dean lays kisses over the scars, mouths them.  Cas doesn’t so much gasp as they do hurriedly exhale, a breath of enormous relief as they slump against the wall, relaxing into Dean’s arms.  They tip their head back further of their own accord now, inviting Dean to continue, not that he’d ever stopped.

Dean finishes with their neck, threads his fingers through Cas’ hair and kisses them again, instead.  He rocks into them like before and Dean’s not sure how either of them are still hard after Cas’ confession except for the fact that they’re desperate for each other.  Dean leans down a bit, pulls Cas’ face with him because fuck that, he’s not letting go; he slips his hand beneath Cas’ kilt, runs his fingers up their leg and along the inside of their thigh, along their hipbones and—

Wait.

“Cas,” he says, “you’re not wearing underwear.”

“It’s traditional to go regimental when wearing a kilt, Dean.”

“Oh sweet fuckin'  _hell,”_ Dean says, and he knows his palm is rough but he wraps it around Cas’ cock anyway, begins to pull and stroke as he bites at Cas’ lips.

Cas makes these short low-pitched whines as Dean alternates between jerking them off and teasing his fingers along the shaft.  They’re not kissing, but their lips are touching, and Dean feels Cas’ hands working at his belt and opening his jeans and _dammit,_ they’re switching positions again.

“You aren’t wearing any, either,” Cas remarks.

Dean winks and says, “Too hot for satin.”

“Jesus Christ, Dean,” says Cas as they push Dean’s jeans down his hips far enough to release his cock, and Dean can’t help but laugh at the way the blasphemy flows from their mouth.  They flip their kilt up, tuck the edges around and behind Dean’s legs, covering both of their hands.  “Take both of us,” they demand.  “I want to feel your cock next to mine.  I want to feel your come on me.”

Dean groans, and does what he’s told.  Their dicks are hot and heavy in his hand.  He lets go long enough to run his palm over both of the heads before taking them up again, rubbing the precome over their dicks and establishing a rhythm.  It’s difficult, trying to flick his wrist at the top like he likes to, because Cas is _hung_ and it’s hard enough just keeping them both in his hand.

Cas rolls their eyes back into their head, leans forward and rests their forehead against Dean’s.  They’re panting, bracing their hands on Dean’s shoulders, keeping him pressed up to the wall.  Dean can feel the bricks digging into his back, and his hand is starting to ache.

“Know what I oughta do?” he asks.  “Oughta drop down on my knees.  Right here in the parking lot.  You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Cas?  Seeing me kneel.”

“Fuck, yes,” Cas mutters breathily, bucking their hips.

“Yeah,” Dean continues, “you’d grab the back of my head, wouldn’t you?  Throw that goddamn skirt of yours over my head with the other hand, push my face against your cock.  Tell me to lick and lap and suck.  Push your dick in between my lips and slide right in.”

_“Dean.”_

“Thought you’d like the sound of that.”  Dean doesn’t even have to speed up his hand; he just loosens his grip and lets Cas fuck into his fist.  “Bet my mouth would be so wet and warm around you,” he says before nipping at their ear and running his tongue along the shell to illustrate.  The sound that Cas makes isn’t human.  “Hot spot noted,” Dean chuckles, the heat from his breath puffing over Cas’ ear.  They shiver, wrapping their fists up in Dean’s shirt, and fuck if it doesn’t make him think about being thrown around by them in an alley years ago.

It must flicker across his face, because Cas takes Dean’s face in his hands and kisses him far more sweetly than someone getting jerked off behind a farmers market should.  Dean melts into the slow burn behind it.  He could kiss Cas forever—slow, rushed, hard, soft.  As long as Dean has access to that plush, perfect mouth, then nothing else matters.

 _Scratch that,_ Dean thinks as Cas’ dick twitches within the embrace of his fingers.   _I want them_ all.

“Close, Dean,” Cas warns when they come up for air.

“I’m gonna show you something,” Dean says.  “You ready?”  When Cas grunts their agreement, Dean reaches a hand between Cas’ legs and kneads the spot behind their balls with his fingertips.

Cas shouts as he comes, a long string of swear words and half curses that Dean would laugh at in any other situation.  Right now, Dean’s eyes are glued to Cas, memorizing the surprised look in their eyes, their pink cheeks, the beads of sweat running down the sides of their face, panting as they come all over Dean’s hand and cock and their own thighs.

“Put your hands behind my neck,” Dean tells them.  Cas does, and Dean flips them around a final time.  He puts their back against the wall, pulls their legs out at an angle.  Dean opens them just enough to slide his cock between and begins to thrust, letting Cas’ cum and sweat lubricate the way.

“I can’t decide,” Cas says as he comes down enough from the high of their orgasm to be coherent, “if I’d rather fuck your mouth, or let you fuck me, and then return the favor.”

“Oh shit.”  Dean has no idea when or where Cas learned to talk dirty, but he’s not going to question it.

“We’d take turns holding and being held down and plowing into each other until all we can do is lie there breathless and sore while cum cools on our skin.”  Cas leans into Dean’s neck and latches on behind his jaw, starts to bite and suck before pulling off and licking over what will surely be a bruise.

Dean comes with a significantly shorter stream of swearing, the knowledge that Cas has remarked him the only thought on his mind.  The cum shoots straight into the back edge of Cas’ kilt and onto the pavement and into the pot of Orange You Glad.

Dean lifts Cas up, coaxes their legs around his waist, starts kissing them again, and it’s not even a question of whether or not he’s glad.  Life is tolerable—peachy, even—and Dean’s ecstatic.

For the first time since Dean returned, he’s home.

**Author's Note:**

> The [Yellow Green Farmers Market](http://www.insouthflorida.com/directory/yellow-green-farmers-market-121751.html) is a real thing! I've never been there, but perhaps someday. They also retweeted a tweet about this fic, which is equal parts exciting and horrifying:
> 
>   
> 
> 
> The accompanying photoset for this fic can be found [here](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/122974312624/orange-you-glad-by-shiphitsthefan-6k-words). If you liked this story, I would greatly appreciate your reblogging it.
> 
> You can find me on my [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I also chirp occasionally witty things on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan).
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(art for) Orange You Glad](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5208554) by [featherfluff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherfluff/pseuds/featherfluff)




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